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Month: August 2016

He’d insisted on arriving by helicopter. Helicopter! She stood on the roof dutifully, at a safe distance from the helipad, her honey-blond locks whipping around her face. Her boss, Ed, the station manager, sighed deeply. He was as annoyed as she.

Finally, the helicopter touched down and Ron emerged, wearing a flashy suit in a color that could only be described as neon tangerine. His hair, held in place by layers of hairspray, didn’t move as he walked toward them with a swagger.

He greeted Ed first, ignoring Veronica’s extended hand.

“Can you get me a coffee, honey?” Ron asked, not bothering to look at her.

Her eyes narrowed. She ignored his request and decided to head inside. “I’ll see you at six.”

I can’t go inside. Andrea parked in front of her friend’s home, watching the silhouettes move behind the curtains.

Kent moved out a week ago. She twisted the gold band on her finger nervously. There was nothing shameful about being single. Nothing at all. She just couldn’t handle the questions, the pity in everyone’s eyes. Not today.

The curtains moved. She’d been seen. She had to get out of the car.

Kent answered the door. “We’ve been waiting for you,” he said, extending his arms. She hugged him tightly, thankful, at least, for his friendship.

It was premiere night and Zoey was nervous. Her new movie, a remake of Jaws, was already getting panned by critics. It’d seemed like a good career move. Quality roles for actresses of color were rare, plus her character delivered the movie’s iconic line, We’re gonna need a bigger boat. But, the backlash was swift. Twitter was bombarded with hatred – racist memes, messages, videos – all targeting her. She hadn’t left her home for days.

The car stopped. She wiped her wet eyes and emerged with a luminous smile. The fans were calling her name.

The hundreds-year-old tree between the two houses was the only one still alive who knew how it all began. Past residents of those houses, Ruby and Dottie, had stood under its wavering, winter-bare branches years ago and argued about some trivial, forgettable, nonsense. Each woman, seething with rage, had marched inside and told their respective husbands not to speak to anyone next door again.

Ruby and Dottie were gone now. It was Ruby’s four-year-old great-great-granddaughter, Pearl, who decided to defy her mother and venture to the other side of the tree. Leaning against its trunk was Sam, Dottie’s great-great-grandson, who was absentmindedly playing with a pocket-watch he’d found in his attic. There was a folded note inside. Before the children could open it, the wind picked it up and carried it away. It was in Dottie’s handwriting, addressed to Ruby, and bore only the words, I’m sorry.

The watch forgotten, Sam and Pearl laughed and chased each other around the base of the tree, as she sighed with relief and showered them with blooms.

Calla hated hospitals. She’d spent a good part of her childhood in them during the years her father was ill. He died when she was thirteen. A week after the funeral, when the phone had stopped ringing, when the neighbors had stopped coming by, when the house was closed-in and empty, stinking of days-0ld casseroles and wilting flowers, she poured herself a drink. A whiskey. Her mother was distracted by her grief, inconsolable, locked in her bedroom. The alcohol was like fire going down Calla’s throat, but she drank every drop. When the glass was empty, she poured another. And another. After she finished the bottle, she felt this delicious oblivion, like nothing could ever hurt her again. She fell in love with the feeling, chasing it desperately for the next decade. Her mother had tried, for years, to drag her back from it, to save her, but the pull was too strong.

Now Calla sat in another hospital, waiting for news of Edgar. Catherine was beside her, her legs jittering nervously, her steely eyes facing the doorway of the waiting room. She’d advised Edgar against having the surgery. She’d spent the past few months trying to talk him out of it, but he was determined. Even with the growth removed his face still wouldn’t look normal. There was much work to do. But this was the biggest hurdle.

Ash snoozed away in the baby seat at her feet. All of their things, the ones she wanted to take with her anyway, were packed away in the trunk of her car in the parking lot. Edgar had gifted her with a shiny new BMW a month before, thinking she was so far under his control that she’d never dare drive beyond the town’s limits. How wrong he’d been. She said her goodbyes him earlier as he laid in his hospital bed, right before they’d taken him into surgery. Catherine had just left the room, leaving Edgar and Calla to sit in silence, the only sound being Ash happily gurgling in Calla’s arms.

“I would have helped you, you know,” Calla blurted out. Edgar’s head whipped around. He looked at her, startled.

“What do you mean?”

“I would have been a friend to you. I would have agreed to help you.” She wiped away a tear. “I was so lonely then. That’s what I was thinking about that day, at the exact moment you grabbed me, how lonely I was. How sick I was of being alone. I would have killed for anyone, a stranger, to just…notice me.” She sniffed, shifting Ash on her lap. “You didn’t have to do what you did. You didn’t have to hurt me…”

“You would have taken one look at me and laughed…”

“I wouldn’t have. I know what it’s like to be trapped. I was trapped long before we ever crossed paths.”

She looked at his face, one of the few times she’d been able to see him without his mask. Whether he’d ever admit it out loud, she knew he believed her.

“What about Rose?” Calla continued. “Why did you have to kill her? You got what you wanted. Me. A marriage. An heir…”

“She humiliated me. Stole from me. No one does that.” He snarled, turning to face the wall.

“She meant you no harm. She just wanted to start over. You hurt her over and over again but she refused to turn you in, even when I begged her to come to the authorities with me. That’s the kind of person she was…”

“She was nobody. Just like you.”

No one is looking for you. His first words to her came back in a flash.

“When you come home, I won’t be there.” She rose from the chair as Edgar turned toward her again, his bulging eyes filling with tears. Calla was unmoved. She was afraid, more afraid than she was the day she’d been taken even, but she had to try. Ash couldn’t be raised in that house.

*

Dr. Knight, Edgar’s surgeon, entered the waiting room, a grave expression on her face that told Calla and Catherine all they needed to know. Catherine began to wail, a horrible, keening sound that filled the room. Calla felt nothing. Just the anchor that had burrowed in the pit of her stomach long ago finally lifting.

Once Catherine had calmed a bit, Dr. Knight moved to Calla, hugging her as well. Calla found it all a bit strange. The doctors that had all treated her father seemed detached when they delivered this news, like they couldn’t wait to get away from that room, the sounds of grief. When Dr. Knight released her, she noticed a faint scar, pale pink, jagged, hardly noticeable unless one really looked closely, along the side of her neck, and held in a gasp.

What has she survived? Was she outside, when I spoke to Edgar? Did she hear? Did she…?

Dr. Knight’s eyes met Calla’s briefly, then she squeezed her hand and briskly left the room, disappearing into the busy corridor.

*

Calla turned down a road that was so familiar to her she could close her eyes and still remember every curve and bump in the asphalt. She stopped in front of a modest house, red brick with dark green shutters, one-story, a driveway stained with oil and full of potholes. She saw the blinds move, a pair of eyes peeking out. Calla scooped up Ash and made her way up the drive. The front door flew open before she even reached the porch. Her mother put her hands to her mouth, her eyes watering as she laid eyes on her grandson. She looked at her daughter. Taking in her clear eyes, her healthy appearance. Calla put her hand on her mother’s face. Her skin was so soft, like Calla remembered, and warm.

Ash was up early. Early morning light slipped through the cracks in the drapes, giving the room a purplish hue. Calla yawned, then slipped out of bed reluctantly. The air was cold on her skin. She lifted her son from his crib and relished his sweet early morning baby scent. Edgar told her he could hire a fleet of nannies and baby nurses to come running every time Ash as much as whimpered, but she refused. She trusted no one.

Catherine visited often, always wanting another look at her beautiful grandson. He was perfect. He had his father’s pale complexion and dark hair, but his mother’s soulful brown eyes and full pink lips. She ran her finger over her son’s smooth skin as she fed him, smiling when his eyes locked on hers. It was her favorite time of day.

She and Edgar had married in secret days after she’d agreed to return to the mansion with him. A judge, an old family friend, had been summoned to the property. They’d stood, Calla in a hideous, puffed-sleeved ivory gown, selected by Edgar of course, Edgar in his dinner tux, under the archway in the parlor, rushing through their vows. Calla looked at the floor the entire time.

After they wed, Edgar didn’t come to her room many nights, only a few. She always thought of something else, another place, a time long ago when she was happy, until it was over. The rest of the time was for her and Ash. She read to him, sang him lullabies, took him on long walks in the sun on the beautiful grounds, which were now tended by a team of gardeners. Edgar was happier now that Catherine had finally released all of his inheritance, and rarely lost his temper. He was obsessed with restoring the mansion to its original glory, as well as traveling the country looking for a doctor who would perform the risky, life-threatening surgery to repair his face. Since the growth was engorged with blood, there was a chance for irreparable blood loss during the operation. He thought it was worth the risk. Maybe he held onto some futile hope that one day she would actually love him.

There was a knock at the bedroom door. Breakfast. She ate all of her meals in her room now with her most favorite, and adorable, dining companion. Esme, the new housekeeper, entered the room, carrying a tray that she set on the bedside table. She hadn’t warmed to Esme yet; the sight of her just made her miss Rose, plus she envied that the staff went home at night to homes filled with warm light and happiness, the laughter and footfalls of loving spouses and extended family.

“Mr. Henry wanted me to leave this too, ma’am,” Esme said, placing a folded newspaper next to the tray.

“Thank you,” Calla said with a tight smile, putting Ash on her shoulder and patting his back, hoping to elicit a burp.

“I can take him for a bit if you’d like,” Esme offered, extending her arms. “I have experience with infants.” Calla had overheard Edgar ask Esme to help more with the baby when he thought she was out of earshot.

“I appreciate that, but it’s okay. I prefer to keep him with me.”

Her face fell before she left the room, and Calla felt terrible. Esme probably thought she hated her. She just couldn’t risk letting Ash out of her sight. Ultimately, Esme’s loyalty lied with Edgar, not her.

Bouncing Ash on one arm, she reached for the paper. It wasn’t local, dated a week ago, in a city on the other side of the country. She opened it to see a short article, no more than a paragraph really, circled in dark red ink. Her knees gave when she saw the picture of the woman next to the article, and she sank onto the bed, keeping a tight grip on Ash. The name was different, but it was Rose. Her Rose. She’d been found murdered.

Ash began to whimper. She clutched him close to her chest and they wept together.

The Funky Monkey was her favorite bar. Or her new favorite bar. Everything lately was brand new. New supermarket, new manicurist, new apartment, new friends. New life.

She was certain her boss had just replaced her on the sales floor when she hadn’t come in a few days in a row. Her so-called friends had probably shrugged and ordered another round of drinks. And Jared, the boyfriend she neglected to dump before she left town, had likely deleted her number and called one of his many admirers. Good riddance.

She nearly fell off her barstool when she saw Jared speaking at a press conference on the TV above the bar, flanked by police officers. The screen changed, and she saw her own face, a photo taken by Jared during a perfect day at the lake. She looked nothing like that now. Her hair was shorter and dyed jet black, her skin deeply tanned, colored contacts in her eyes. She blinked away tears.